


'till death, beloved

by anarcheologist (sensalito)



Category: A Single Man (2009), Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: A Single Man AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Being an author should be considered self-harm, Depression, Grief/Mourning, Heart Attacks, M/M, Sad, Sad with a Happy Ending, Suicidal Thoughts, Their Love Is So, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 12:18:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4019470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensalito/pseuds/anarcheologist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That sort of A Single Man AU no one asked for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'till death, beloved

**Author's Note:**

> A Single Man, cinematic masterpiece that teared my heart in two and set it on fire for good measure, than stomped on it just because. I have only watched this movie once in my life, as it literally brought me to my knees when I watched it.
> 
> [The scene that started it all](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KpGncCKfZLI)
> 
> And I suggest listening to the soundtrack, especially n°16: [And Just Like That](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zpmfvq6x_ac)

It’s the first thing Harry hears. The phone ringing. Then the tick-tick-tocking of his old clock, quite near his head. He must have fallen asleep in the living room again.

He never did like getting up. Nowadays he abhors it.

For the past eight months, waking up has actually hurt. The cold realization that he is still here slowly sets in.

The moment he opens his eyes, he's greeted by rays of sunlight filtering through the blinds. He blinks for a few seconds, then passes a hand over his face.

He ignores the phone.

He'd been drowning again. In his dream. Really, he's been unable to fill his lungs properly for months now. It always feels like the weight resting on his chest is more present if he tries to breathe in too deeply.

He hears the phantom sound of light shuffling steps on the first floor.

This is why he doesn't sleep upstairs anymore.

 _He_ is too present there. There's no escaping.

He can't stand it.

˜

Harry opens his eyes to light darkness; it must be sunrise. He's not quite sure how long he's been sitting here. His legs are numb. His whole body is numb, actually. It almost feel as if his heart isn't even beating.

He tightens his hold. His arms are like bands of steel, prying them open would be impossible if he did not wish for them to relax.

His most precious cargo sits there, head tucked under his chin. He passes the back of his fingers lightly over the skin of his captive's cheek.

He doesn't look down. He cannot make himself yet.

"Harry."

Merlin. He's crouching in front of him. Harry doesn't react.

"Harry, you have to let me take him now."

His hold tightens once more on the immovable form in his arms. It's noisy outside, he notices suddenly.

He bends his head down slightly and breathe in the soft scent of shampoo wafting from the soft hair brushing his neck.

"Harry, I need to see for myself- to confirm-"

"No."

The word is simple. Not shouted nor whispered, yet it sounds like the thump of a gavel in a courtroom.

Merlin raises his hands up, palms open, as if to show him he's harmless.

"Harry." Merlin takes a deep breath, eyes starting to get a little wet. "My friend, we have to bring him home." And it's the whisper of a break in his friend's voice that does it.

Harry's never been religious before but in this instant, he'd have given everything for some deity to hear his pleads.

His sweetheart sits in his lap, right hand still untangled in Harry's lapel from the moment he drew his last breath hours ago. And Harry can't take it. He can't.

And so he cries. He lets himself acknowledge the fact that the love of his life died in his arms at the tender age of 27, only a month away from their wedding.

˜

Harry has a routine. It takes him a long time to become Harry Hart in the morning. Stiff but irreprochable Harry. Perfect, always.

He goes upstairs to take his shower and shave. He doesn’t spend unnecessary time in the stall but he’s always very thorough.

He doesn't look at the right side of the sink where products that don't belong to him have stayed untouched. Especially not when he has a razor in his hand.

Stepping in the bedroom, he brushes his hand on the sweater lying on the back of a chair. He refuses to glance towards the right side of the bed where it is still unmade. He does not make eye contact with himself in the mirror as he goes into the walk in closet, pays close attention not to move anything from the shelf under his, filled with graphic shirts and a bright green cap.

He takes his clothes with precaution, trying not to notice the obviously smaller suits hanging next to his own.

He once again brushes his hand against an article of clothing worn almost to the point of falling apart, this time a jacket, hanging at the door. And before he takes his last step in the bedroom proper to dress himself, he takes the only deep breath he'll take in his day, savouring the lingering scent of apple and hair gel, then carefully closes the door of the closet.

˜

Harry’s walking. Slow, measured steps. It is snowing heavily and he knows exactly where he is. Where to go.

He knows if he rounds the corner right now, he’ll see Eggsy bleeding out on the ground.

His shoes are crunching snow yet he makes no sounds.

In a mere second, he’ll see the red spreading across stark white as life escapes the still form of his darling boy, he’ll see the last moments of the person who brought him happiness and made him feel love beyond words.

He’ll see his reason to breathe leave him.

Yet, he cannot stop himself from going, from taking the steps right up to his beloved’s sides.

He cannot help but gently lying down, because as he does, he knows he’ll see Eggsy smiling at him. He’ll see him look back with love. He’ll hear him say:

“Don’t cry. It’s gonna be alright. I’ll wait for you.”

The world is fragile in this moment. Quiet. Respectful.

And as he lies there in the snow, in utter silence, he knows that he only has a few seconds at most to say goodbye.

“I love you,” he whispers on a breath, “More than life itself.”

And Eggsy smiles, brilliantly, so beautiful it hurts.

“I love you too.” His voice is so thin, it’s barely a sound at all.

Harry sees the exact moment his lover is gone. He’s never felt agony like this before.

His existence has no meaning anymore. He’s tired, exhausted of fighting. He’d found solace in the azure eyes that looks back at him, now empty. He finally had a family in Eggsy. Joy. A reason to fight the good fight and return home.

He knows that as he shuffles closer to brush his lips one last time to the soft ones of his fiancé, Eggsy won’t have to wait long.

“Beloved.”

## ~

The gasp he takes as he wakes up is so brutal, it almost feels like he’s not breathing at all for a moment.

His tensed muscles relax and he sighs shakily; he’s lying down. He never lies completely down anymore, not on his own (he doesn’t want to fall asleep, because he doesn’t want to wake up); someone must have put him to bed. Merlin, probably.

He’s disoriented briefly before recognizing the ceiling of Kingsman’s headquarters standard rooms. He stares at the blank expanse, taking stock of his body.

Cold sweat.

Pounding migraine.

Perpetual feeling of apathy.

Aching chest.

Heavy ring finger.

He realizes with a start there’s something wet at his fingertips: ink, black.

It made a large halo on the cover, his Kingsman issued fountain pen clutched into his hand.

The letters, he recalls blearily. And he didn’t even manage to write much of anything...

He lets go of the pen, reaching up to brush his index softly on his lower lip, the familiar phantom warmth of a kiss lingering. It tingles. (It hurts.)

He turns his head just enough to glimpse from the corner of his eye the barrel of his gun.

He lets himself imagine the cold muzzle resting gently against his temple. In his mouth. Right on his heart.

One day later than yesterday, one year later than last year. Sooner or later it will come.

He closes his eyes.

Soon.

## ~

In the bathroom mirror he stares, immobile, at the ink fingerprint on his lip, looking like a tattoo, like a bruise. It looks like blood.

“Just get through the goddamn day,” he mutters at himself.

For the first time in his life, he canʼt see his future. Every day goes by in a haze. He loathes it; he’s never not had purpose in his life. He was always driven by something or another. He doesn’t have anything anymore.

He closes his eyes, vision blurry as Eggsy’s voice rings in his head, an image of the both of them sprawled on the sofa sprouting behind his eyelids.

_“What could be better than this? Tucked up here with you. If I died right now it would be OK.”_

If Eggsy hadn’t walked into his life, he’d never have known the true meaning of living.

It’s funny how one single person can take your life and change it so radically, the minute they’re gone, you can’t seem to know up from down. They branded you for life.

As Harry opens his eyes, the only thing he sees is the ink.

## ~

In the end, he doesn’t even have to take his own life.

Of all things, what he didn’t prepare for is for his body to decide it had enough of adrenaline shoots and sorrow.

In early January, almost a year day for day after the death of Eggsy, Harry has a heart attack.

When he feels it coming, he doesn’t resist. Oh, it hurts, and the circumstances are pretty overdramatic when you think about it: when he’s finally starting to accept Eggsy’s death and getting into a slightly less painful routine than usual, his body decides it’s time by its own self.

He has to admit: his heart was already broken, for it to fail is only fitting.

He’s pushed everyone away for 12 months, nobody’s checking in on him until tomorrow at the very least, so he knows nobody will interfere. He breathes through the stabbing, almost blinding pain and gets up from the sofa where he perched himself not a minute ago. He climbs the stairs wearily, and for the last time, lies down in their bed.

The feeling of it is like coming home after years adrift.

He settles in the middle and grabs Eggsy’s pillow, taking a deep breath of the last lingering tendrils of scent he can catch.

When he blinks his eyes open for the final time, Eggsy’s here, standing beside the bed with a wistful smile tugging the corners of his lips. Harry tries to lift his hand but he can’t move anymore though he can feel the muscles of his arm twitch erratically.

Eggsy bends down above him and, with the most tender look in his eyes, brushes their lips together.

 

_“Beloved.”_


End file.
